


a part of my heart that you'll never change

by bellawritess



Series: brazil [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: .......kinda, Alcohol, Band Fic, Brazil, FIFA World Cup 2014, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Jealousy, M/M, Where We Are Tour, again......kinda, all the 1d boys are in it but only for a sec so i didnt tag em, deus ex management where management solves everything without ever appearing, i tried to keep the self indulgence to a minimum but im sure i failed, suspend disbelief when you must thank you smiley face, this is the most self indulgent fic ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: Then they release an album, andthatblows up, and then Calum somehow convinces management that they should go to Brazil for the World Cup, which is weird because Michael is pretty sure they’re scheduled to play the Where We Are Tour for, like, all of the World Cup, except apparently the Switzerland show has been conveniently cancelled (not convenient for the Swiss, though, Michael guesses), and that leaves them with a comfortable three-day window.They go to Brazil.
Relationships: (the lashton is pre-slash sorry), Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford & Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford & Luke Hemmings, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Series: brazil [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073381
Comments: 23
Kudos: 44





	a part of my heart that you'll never change

**Author's Note:**

> ohhhhmygod i typed EVERYTHING up and then ao3 timed the page out and i had to do it all again take 2 resisting the urge to commit arson let's go
> 
> so HELLO welcome to the most self indulgent fic ever posting fic at quarter to 3am my brand <3 i miss brazil and so now you get this fic because i wanted to flex. hopefully nobody hates me for all the specific brazil stuff i just love brazil also separate from that i love the idea of calum and michael and brazil and yeah
> 
> there are some thanks in order first of all of course [helen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin) not only is she the love of my life she also read this fic and gave me?? constructive?? feedback?? truly where would i be without you. also [ainslee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisonthefloor) who let me talk her ear off about brazil despite literally not caring about brazil i love u also shoutout to [maggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuz) for idk what but she definitely deserves one and also everyone on tumblr who let me endlessly talk about this fic you guys rock i love u all<
> 
> title from [hearts upon our sleeve](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SrTP_pllUng) by 5 seconds of summer featuring scott mills NO shame absolute banger i will not be hearing otherwise that song is not only integral to this fic it is also integral to my HEART for so many reasons and i love it unabashedly
> 
> tw for a little bit of alcohol/drinking
> 
> i hope you guys can forgive me for playing fast & loose with some stuff in here just a blanket request to suspend disbelief when necessary okay? okay :)

**PROLOGUE**

Calum goes to football camp in Brazil. Then he comes back, and Michael pretends like he’s been productive all month instead of just sulking around wishing for the power of teleportation so he could be in Brazil with Calum and not bored and home by himself. Like, he misses Calum, but he doesn’t need Calum to know that. Calum will know it anyway, whether or not Michael admits to it, so Michael decides he won’t.

He does pick Calum up from the airport, though. It’s all big smiles as Calum comes out of the gate, and Michael’s face might split in half. He wraps Calum in a hug that swallows both of them up, and is relieved to find that Calum is hugging him back just as hard, just as desperate. Calum has missed Michael, too, and unlike Michael he has no qualms about saying it. 

“Missed you,” he mumbles into Michael’s shoulder. “I’m happy you came to pick me up.”

Mali drove them, but that’s not really the point. “Sap,” Michael tells him, although when Calum moves to pull away Michael doesn’t allow it for another minute.

“Sap,” Calum retorts.

Michael doesn’t answer. It’s been a whole _month_ of Calumlessness so he kind of feels like he’s earned as long a hug as he’d like. Calum smells a little bit like fresh, foreign air, but mostly he just smells like the airplane, and kind of sweaty and gross. 

Brazil, Michael decides, is a thing of the past. He’s never going to worry about it anymore.

* * *

The lyrics are impossibly generic. At least, though, they’re self aware. _It’s a generic football anthem._ Yeah, it sure the fuck is. Whatever, it’s cool that they get to record it, that of all the bands out there — bands who actually have _studio albums out_ , unlike theirs — BBC asked _5SOS_ to sing the football song, or, as Scott Mills had enthusiastically called it, the “unofficial 2014 World Cup anthem.” Michael thinks maybe that’s pretentious, but BBC has a lot of sway, so maybe it’s just honest.

They record at the BBC Radio One studio, which up until now Michael hadn’t known existed. For a radio station it’s pretty high-tech, although for a recording studio it’s not. Not that Michael has a lot of knowledge of recording studios. They’ve been on a relatively slim budget for awhile.

There are a lot of cameras around, taking videos of them as they record. Michael, fighting a giddy feeling, makes faces with Calum and throws the football when he’s instructed to. Calum is annoyingly good with keeping the football in the air (not that Michael’s surprised or anything) but somehow none of the shots of him juggling make it into the final cut for the Hearts Upon Our Sleeve video. What _does_ make it in is a shot of Michael literally on his phone, which Michael kind of resents on account of how it makes him seem disinterested. Also, he’s pretty sure they used the same clip of the One Direction boys twice. Oh well. The song sounds really cool, very anthemic, like, and the reception is so immediate and positive that Michael actually has to turn off his phone.

“Everyone loves it,” he breathes.

“Duh,” Ashton says. “It’s a generic football anthem to be sung around the _world._ How could they not love it.”

Michael has nothing to throw, so he just flips Ashton off.

Then they release an album, and _that_ blows up, and then Calum somehow convinces management that they should go to Brazil for the World Cup, which is weird because Michael is pretty sure they’re scheduled to play the Where We Are Tour for, like, all of the World Cup, except apparently the Switzerland show has been conveniently cancelled (not convenient for the Swiss, though, Michael guesses), and that leaves them with a comfortable three-day window. 

They go to Brazil.

“Smells Brazilian,” Ashton declares when they land.

“It smells like an airport,” Luke goes, which it does. Although Michael kind of enjoys the idea that it smells like a Brazilian airport.

They’re staying at a decently nice hotel in a neighborhood called Leblon which is apparently not a city. The city they’re staying in is Rio. “Is this like the boroughs in New York City?” Michael wonders aloud.

“I’m pretty sure there are neighborhoods in New York City,” Luke says. “Soho, Midtown, stuff like that.”

Michael doesn’t ask how Luke would even know that. Luke’s probably spent long nights on Google learning as much about New York as he possibly can to be armed with the knowledge for when they finally make it there. If they ever fucking make it there. If they ever return to the Where We Are Tour.

Since this is kind of a clandestine visit to Brazil, they evade mobs (the fact that they have to _evade mobs_ still throws Michael every time he thinks about it) on their way to the hotel. Michael feels jet-lagged, so he throws his shit unceremoniously at the floor of the hotel room he’s sharing with Calum and says, “I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s eight p.m.,” Calum says.

“It’s one in the morning and I’m tired,” Michael complains. He holds out his arms. “Cuddle me.”

Calum huffs, fond. “I’m going out.”

“Go out tomorrow. Then I can go with you.”

“I have plans,” Calum clarifies. “With some friends.”

Michael blinks. Calum doesn’t have friends, he thinks in his tired, travel-worn state. No. That’s wrong. Calum has friends. Just not in Brazil, he doesn’t. Does he? Does he have secret Brazilian friends Michael doesn’t know about?

“Who the fuck could you possibly have plans with? Luke?”

“Some guys I did the footie camp with,” Calum says. “If you must know.”

Michael’s still tired and maybe that’s why he can’t stop himself from feeling kind of angry with jealousy that they’re in a foreign fucking country where everything’s in a different language and yet somehow, Calum has _plans._ He has _friends_. _Footie camp friends._

“Oh,” is what Michael says. “Okay. Have fun.”

Calum smiles, like he’d been waiting for Michael’s go-ahead. “Have fun sleeping at eight o’clock at night,” he says.

By all rights, Calum should be jet-lagged too, but Michael holds his tongue and waits for Calum to gather his shit and leave before rolling into the too-soft pillow of the bed, sleepy but also awake. He wonders what Calum is doing and who his friends are and how close they are, and wonders himself to sleep.

He wakes up at five in the morning and Calum’s passed out in the other bed. Probably worked himself up with all the Google Translate he was using, Michael assumes. He feels frustratingly awake and figures if he’s up, Luke and Ashton are bound to be as well, so he gets dressed and brushes his teeth because his breath is _ripe_ from the flight, and then he slips out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him so as not to wake Calum.

Ashton opens his and Luke’s door. “Luke’s still asleep,” he whispers. “Don’t ask me how. You wanna go do something?”

“Can’t imagine anything is going to be open at five in the morning,” Michael says, “but yeah.” 

The sun isn’t even up yet, which Michael had failed to notice due to the curtains being closed. As they leave the hotel, Michael feels a slight chill. He hadn’t planned to be cold so he’s only in a t-shirt, but Ashton takes one look at him and shrugs off his flannel. Michael takes it gratefully. This is why Ashton’s his favorite (sometimes). He’s gotten so used to the sticky heat of Europe in June and July that he’d forgotten Brazil and Australia are in the same hemisphere. It’s winter here. Thank God. Michael’s not sure he’d mesh well with a Brazilian summer. He _hates_ sticky heat and it’s bad enough in the winter as it is. Brazil and Australia are probably not the best places for him to be, but they’re already here so there’s really no point in arguing.

Plus, like, okay. Yeah, he doesn’t mesh well with the Brazilian climate, but still, who in their right mind would refuse a trip to _Brazil?_ This is one of those countries that people dream about visiting, and, like, put into their ten-year life plans. Musicians dream of coming to Brazil. So Michael’s a little bit annoyed about the unexpected chill in a place that should be perpetually warm, but he’s also, very slightly, starstruck by it.

Somehow it’s both everything and nothing like he would have expected. Part of that might have to do with World Cup season, Michael guesses. Like, he probably wouldn’t have anticipated the streamers and all the confetti and general trashiness of the streets, or the bloke pissing against the side of a building. In real life, Rio is far less romantic than in pictures and stories. Michael is kind of charmed by the realism of it, though. This trashy version of Brazil seems way more approachable than the Beautiful Sandy Beaches on postcards.

Speaking of beaches, “I think the beach is about three blocks this way,” Ashton says. Of course he would know that. Michael shrugs, so they set off towards the beach. Michael doesn’t know what they’ll do if they get, like, mugged or something. They might not even know; someone stopping them could just as likely be asking for directions and Michael would have no way of knowing. Unless they had a gun or a knife or something. Or a map. Anyone asking for directions probably won’t be asking in Portuguese, anyway, so Michael decides that if they get stopped, they’re definitely going to be mugged. He shares this thought with Ashton.

“I’ll protect you,” Ashton says. “I have big strong drummer muscles.”

“That’s true,” Michael says, because it is. “But you also have absolutely zero intimidation skills. _I_ look scarier than you because of the hair. You just look like a puppy or something.”

“You look like a colorful puppy,” Ashton retorts. “Like a hedgehog.”

Michael grins and links their arms. They probably look tourist-y, but whatever.

“Wonder if you can see the sunrise on this beach,” he says when they arrive at the beach. It’s, well, pretty much exactly what you’d expect; sand followed by water. There are tents set up along the sand, every so often, and Michael’s kind of tempted to go to each one in turn and see what they’re selling. The only thing stopping him is that he doesn’t speak any Portuguese and would surely just make an absolute embarrassment of himself.

“I doubt it,” Ashton says. “I think this beach faces south.” He says it like he’s talking out of his ass, but even when he does that he’s usually right, so Michael lets him.

The classic Rio de Janeiro beach pattern is spread out in front of them, black and white curving into each other. Michael and Ashton cross it to get to the beach. There are a few drunken stragglers and probably some overzealous tourists occupying the stretch of sand, but overall it’s surprisingly barren. Michael’s not a fan of the sand, but he sits gingerly anyway when Ashton does.

“You know Calum has friends here?” he says out of nowhere.

“Hm,” Ashton says, meaning absolutely nothing. “No. How come?”

“Footie camp.”

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“No it doesn’t,” Michael says, a little bossily. “Why did they even keep in touch?”

“Don’t be jealous, Mikey,” Ashton says, staring off into the ocean like he’s some old, wizened…wizard type. With the faint breeze rustling Ashton’s hair, Michael thinks Ashton could probably model for a shampoo commercial or something.

“I’m not jealous.” Michael doesn’t _get_ jealous. It’s just, okay, he’s not _jealous_ , he’s _not_ , he’s just a little territorial, maybe. But that’s not the same. Calum _can_ have other friends. He just shouldn’t.

“Okay,” Ashton says, and then Michael’s phone starts buzzing.

“Hello?”

“Where are you guys?”

“Good morning,” Michael says. “The beach.”

“You went to the beach without me?” Calum says groggily. Michael can picture him rolling out of bed and scrubbing a tired hand over his face. 

“You went out with friends without _me_ ,” he says. Ashton gives him a look, like, _see? Jealous._ Michael sticks his tongue out.

“You can meet them today,” Calum says. “We’re gonna get dinner.”

What the fuck did they do last night, then, Michael doesn’t ask. “Okay.”

“Should I bother coming to you guys or are you coming back?” 

Michael relays the question to Ashton, who shrugs like he doesn’t care, which he probably doesn’t. Michael wishes sometimes he were in Ashton’s head. It seems so easygoing in there.

“We’ll probably come back soon,” Michael says. “But we can stay if you want to come.”

“That’s okay,” Calum says. “Maybe tonight. After dinner or something.”

“Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

Calum hangs up. Ashton makes a face. Michael makes one back.

The sunrise doesn’t come up over this beach, exactly, but it’s nice anyway, Michael’s head resting on Ashton’s shoulder. Anyone could see them, but no one knows they’re here, and anyway it’s early as fuck, and also, Michael doesn’t care. Is it a crime to hang out with your friend and bandmate? To sit on the beach and pretend you’re watching the sunrise? No.

As the sky slowly fills with light, the space around them starts to liven up, and so Michael and Ashton stand up and brush the sand off their clothes and then make their way back to the hotel. Michael follows Ashton, because he hadn’t been paying any attention to how they’d gotten here, but thankfully Ashton _had_ been. Plus anyway it’s a straight shot down this road (Rua something or other — again, Michael, no Portuguese).

Before they go in, Ashton stops Michael and points. “I think that’s a supermarket.”

There’s absolutely no indication whatsoever that the place labeled “Zona Sul” is a supermarket, but Ashton continues, “We can see a Brazilian supermarket! Come on.”

So Michael huffs and follows him into the store. He has to remind Ashton that they have no Brazilian money, at least not yet, which means they cannot buy anything, no matter how longingly Ashton stares at the shelves of sweets. “You don’t even know what’s in these,” Michael points out, since everything is in fucking Portuguese.

“Yeah, but it’s not like I have any allergies,” Ashton goes, pouting. Michael pulls him away from the sweets with a very empty promise that they can probably come back for them, and then they go back up to their respective hotel rooms. Calum is sprawled across his bed, texting, when Michael comes in.

“How was the beach?”

“Pretty,” Michael admits. “How was whatever you’re doing? Masturbating or whatever?”

“Really great,” Calum deadpans. “Cuddle?” He spreads his arms like _join me._

“Gross, I don’t want to cuddle with you knowing you’ve jerked off recently,” Michael says, but he climbs into the bed anyway. “I might be sandy, just so you know.”

“Oh, fuck you, you couldn’t have warned me before you got in?”

“You knew I was at the beach.”

Calum sighs and kisses Michael’s temple, and Michael decides he’s not jealous of Calum’s Brazilian footie friends. It’s not like Calum is kissing any of _their_ temples.

Wait. Is he? _Is he?_

“I’m pretty sure Ashton wants to go to see Christ the Redeemer today,” Calum says.

“Cool. I want to do the pose anyway.”

“Of course you do. The view is really incredible, you know.”

“How would you know?”

“We took a field trip as part of the camp.” Calum’s fingers are dragging lightly up and down Michael’s bare arm now — the flannel returned to its rightful owner — and Michael wishes he had the energy to be annoyed that Calum had this entire life experience without him, but he feels so relaxed like this.

“No wonder you decided not to pursue football,” Michael says, smirking kind of. “Field trips.”

“Touring is basically glorified field trips anyway.”

“Yeah, but you get to play _music_ to _crowds_. Plus do footie field trips have me? No.”

“They also don’t have Niall,” Calum says thoughtfully. “That’s a sad life indeed.”

Michael could pretend to be offended, but it wouldn’t last. He would also be pretty sad in a life without Niall.

They lay in bed for a little while, both fucking around on their phones. Then Luke knocks loudly on their door and tells them they have to come out because he categorically refuses to bear the brunt of Ashton’s tourist infection. They do, and together the three of them just manage to rein in Ashton’s unbridled enthusiasm for seeing Every Single Iconic Brazilian Location, never mind that most of them aren’t in walking or even taxi-ing distance. At least management has gotten them some Brazilian money — they’re spelled reals or reais or something and they’re pronounced some fucked up way that starts with an H; Michael zones out because in no world does a word that starts with R get pronounced with an H and who does Brazil think it is, changing letters like that — so they decide, what the hell, Christ the Redeemer it is. “Corcovado,” Ashton reminds them all, probably butchering the pronunciation.

They take a taxi, which ends up with Luke, Michael, and Calum all squished into the back. Ashton gets shotgun because he’s the oldest and broadest and also just the most excited and nobody feels like arguing when he calls it. Michael wouldn’t want shotgun in a taxi anyway. Especially not when they’re so obviously tourists.

The taxi driver says something in Portuguese, and the four of them blink back, and then Ashton says, “Corcovado?” and the taxi driver says, “You are Americans?” and Michael is pretty sure you’re not supposed to admit when you’re a tourist, but Ashton says, “Australian,” anyway, because Ashton’s a fucking moron. World’s most irresponsible tourist. The taxi driver just smiles and says, in a very thick accent, “This is not a problem. It is around thirty minutes to Corcovado.” He gets the pronunciation right, and Michael is embarrassed on Ashton’s behalf, because Ashton doesn’t look it. He just beams.

“That’s fine!” he says enthusiastically. “Thank you.”

“ _De nada_ ,” the taxi driver says, and then, “You’re welcome,” even though any idiot would know what _de nada_ means. Michael kind of thought that was Spanish, but Spanish and Portuguese probably share a lot of words, logically. 

“ _Obrigado_ ,” Calum adds. The taxi driver nods graciously like this is a really intelligent thing to say.

“What did you say,” Michael hisses as they start driving. 

“Thank you,” Calum whispers back. “I only know like four things in Portuguese. I can also say bathroom.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Banheiro_.”

“Wow,” Michael whispers sarcastically. “You’re such a native.”

Calum elbows him. “Stop whispering, you guys are being really shady,” Luke tells them.

The taxi ride costs them almost fifty reals or reais or what the fuck ever. “What the fuck,” Michael says when they’re out of the cab. “That was such a rip-off.”

“Mike, the conversion rate is like three to one,” Calum says. Of course it is. Michael does a quick calculation; in dollars, that ride had cost maybe sixteen bucks. That’s slightly more stomacheable. 

Ashton really wants to take the cog train to the top, but the queue, even at this hour, is a little too long for any of them to be interested in standing in. “Let’s just take the van,” Luke says, pulling kind of childishly at Ashton’s sleeve. Ashton relents, probably because Luke asked and it’s impossible to say no to Luke, but like _extra_ impossible for _Ashton_ to say no to Luke, for whatever reason Michael doesn’t care to get into. They pile into the van and pay for the trip and Michael thinks this is the kind of thing you can do when you’re a rock star, just spontaneously decide to take an expensive van up a mountain to see a landmark, and then _do_ it. But that’s what they’re doing right now, and they’re not rock stars. Are they? There has to be some kind of grace period before you get to be a rock star, properly, and their album has only been out for like _maybe_ one week, which, Michael is almost certain, is not enough time to be elected into rock-stardom.

By the time Michael’s determined that he’s not going to puzzle this one out, they’re at the top.

It’s crowded, which Michael should have expected. For some reason, the fact that it’s just gone eight in the morning made him believe they’d be close to the only ones there, even after seeing the queue for the train, so he’s unfortunately surprised at how many people are up here at the same time as them.

“Smile,” Ashton commands. Michael turns to Ashton’s camera and makes the ugliest face he can pull. “Great. That one is for Instagram.” 

“Tag me,” Michael says. And then Calum pulls him away, not that Michael’s complaining. Luke can deal with Ashton for a little while. 

“This is so cool,” Calum breathes, as they’re standing looking over the edge. Michael would agree if he weren’t breathless himself. There’s something so incredibly humbling about staring over the edge of a mountain and seeing a sprawling city in front of you, cramped buildings punctuated with looming mountains — “Dois irmãos, the two brothers,” Calum says, pointing, “and that’s Sugarloaf mountain, which I forget the Portuguese name for.” Michael wraps an arm around Calum’s waist and pulls him tight against his side. He’s helpless against the existentialism, but not against the feeling of being alone.

“I’m happy you stayed with the band,” he tells the wind, hoping it’ll carry his voice to Calum without actually having to say it to Calum. “We would be so bad without you.”

“I know,” Calum says, but his arm is snug around Michael’s shoulders and he briefly tips their heads together. “I’m happy too.”

There’s a tap on Michael’s shoulder and he turns, expecting Luke or an overeager Ashton, but instead it’s two teenage girls, and they’re both blushing a _lot_ , and Michael thinks _oh, this is what it’s like to be a rock star._ He affixes a cheerful smile to his face and kind of nudges Calum with his hip and says, “Hi guys!”

“Hi, sorry, sorry to interrupt,” the first girl says, obviously Brazilian if her accent is anything to go by, while the other girl blushes and giggles and generally looks silly. Michael tries his best not to judge; this is, after all, basically how he’d reacted to meeting Alex Gaskarth for the first time, although that had been _Alex Gaskarth_. Michael’s just Michael. “Is it possible for to get a picture? We were not expecting you in Brazil!”

“I’d love to,” Michael says. “So would Calum, he’s just a twat.”

“I’m not!” Calum protests, and then turns his full-wattage smile onto the girls, who basically melt into puddles of goo in response. “I’d also love a picture, but I don’t want Michael in it.” He grins when the girls look vaguely concerned. “Kidding, I’m joking. Yeah, let’s take one.”

They get their dad or something to take the picture. Michael says, “What are your names?”

“I am Luisa,” the first girl says. “This is my sister Ana Carolina.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Calum says. “Hey, could you just do us a small favor? We’re kind of here on the down-low — I mean, like, secretly. You know? So if you could just not post those pictures for a couple days, that’d mean the world to us.”

Luisa nods like she understands. “By the way,” she says. “Your album! It is, um, very good. Very, very good.”

“Oh, thank you!”

“I like Long Way Home,” Ana Carolina says, speaking for the first time. Calum beams. Michael thinks he might be in heaven.

“I love that one,” Calum tells her. “So does Mikey. It’s kind of a band favorite.” Technically speaking, _all_ of the songs are band favorites, but this girl doesn’t need to know that.

They giggle and blush some more, and Calum points them in the direction of Luke and Ashton, so they giggle and blush their way to Luke and Ashton, and then Calum looks at Michael and shakes his head and says, “I’m never going to get used to that, I don’t think.”

“That’s what all the rock stars say,” Michael goes.

They leave Corcovado, after Michael gets a photo doing the pose and Ashton has taken about nine billion pictures from every single possible angle, and by the time they return to the hotel (shelling out another fifty reais for the cab home — maybe they should start walking more places, Michael muses), it’s high noon and Michael has zero interest in being outdoors. He’s fucking _starving_ , though — in European time it’s practically dinner, and none of them have even had lunch yet. When they’re safely in Luke and Ashton’s room Luke suggests room service, and nobody disagrees. They eat in companionable silence. Michael wonders how Calum intends to get dinner with his Brazilian friends when his brain will be thinking it’s one in the morning. 

“Wanna go swimming?” Luke asks once they’ve polished off the food.

“Where, the beach?”

“No, here. There’s a pool.”

“Oh,” Michael says. “Okay.”

So they swim, which feels nice in the sticky heat. He and Luke go in first, and then Ashton comes a little bit later, and then Calum comes outside, but he doesn’t get in, just sits by the poolside being boring. Michael splashes at his feet and Calum responds by throwing his shoe at Michael.

“I could throw this over the edge right now and then you’d only have one shoe,” Michael threatens.

“Do it, then,” Calum says. Fuck. Calum always knows when to call his bluff. Michael tosses the shoe back onto the pool deck in Calum’s general direction. He starts a splash fight with Luke and Ashton and tries not to wonder who the fuck Calum is texting all the time.

Calum announces, “My friends are coming to say hi, is that cool?”

“When?” Ashton asks. 

“However long it takes them to get here.”

“A little fucking advance notice next time,” Michael grumbles, getting out of the pool. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Dibs! Bagsies! I’m showering first,” Luke shouts. Ashton gives him this ridiculous look that’s far too fond to be exasperated. Michael makes the conscious decision to not wonder what that means, and instead focuses on how irritating Calum’s Brazilian friends are. He wonders if they’re footie stars now. If they know that Calum’s in, like, a super punk rock band that’s doing a world tour with one of the biggest bands on the planet right now. Calum is probably the most famous of them all, and Michael gets a weird kind of satisfaction from that knowledge as he treks back to their room to shower the pool stuff off of him. By the time he’s out and dressed, he has a text from Calum, asking if he’s decent and can Calum bring his friends up.

Michael replies, _you can bring them up but no promises about being decent_. Then he lies on his bed as casually as he can, reading the same Tweet over and over until the doorknob turns and Calum and his friends spill into the room.

There are two of them, both with similarly Brazilian features, not that Michael’s an expert on Brazilian features or anything, and they both wave and smile at Michael like they aren’t committing some vicious crime against Michael and Calum’s friendship. “Michael?” one of them says.

Michael nods and turns off his phone. “And you are…?” Hopefully conveying that they’re not even relevant enough in Calum’s life to refer to by name, but the friend in question just beams.

“João Pedro,” he says.

“And this is Gustavo,” Calum says, about the other guy, whose hands are in his pockets. 

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Gustavo promises in aggravatingly good English, which partially annoys Michael, like, how dare they let Calum talk to them at length about anything, but on the other hand if Calum’s _going_ to be talking at length about anything it may as well be Michael. “All good things, obviously.”

“Not all,” Calum says. He gives Michael a kind of frosty glare, like, _stop being a piece of shit_. “They’re just being polite because I told them you’re an asshole.”

“Thanks,” Michael says. “Um, nice to meet you?”

“Nice to meet you,” João Pedro answers, and then there’s an awkward moment where nobody has anything else to say, and then Calum says, “Well, I figured it would be nice for you guys to meet. Mikey, we’re gonna probably go to the beach, do you wanna come?”

Michael wants to go to the beach with Calum _alone_. He wants to sit in the sand as the sun comes up like he and Ashton had done this morning, cuddling to preserve body heat against the breeze of the early morning; he doesn’t want these two jokers infringing. “No,” he says. “Have fun. Kick some sand for me or whatever.”

“Are you sure?” João Pedro asks, obviously the more friendly (or: ambitious) of the two of them. “The beach is really nice this time of year.”

“It was kind of nasty when I went,” Michael lies. “Probably from the World Cup.”

“Well, we are a celebratory kind of city about football,” Gustavo says, smiling good-naturedly.

“Mikey doesn’t really follow sports,” Calum shares.

“I follow some sports,” Michael bitches. Calum raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Like?”

“Like,” Michael says, “baseball. The Dodgers. Love them.”

“What city do the Dodgers play for, again?”

“Well, if you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you, am I?”

Calum rolls his eyes. “Okay, well, whatever, we’re going. If you feel like joining us later you can. We’re gonna have dinner at eight, anyway. I’ll text you where.”

Michael has half a mind to invite Ashton and Luke, for moral support, but even he knows that’s rude to do when the invitation’s only been extended to him. “Have fun,” he says again. Calum and his Brazilian footie friends turn and leave and Michael grumbles into his pillow about how stupid Calum’s stupid friends are, and how stupidly handsome they are, and have Brazilians ever considered that maybe being handsome should be illegal because how is Michael supposed to compete with someone who looks like _that_ and _also_ has a really cool, exotic name like João Pedro, which Michael surely can’t even spell.

And then he thinks, hang on, who’s competing? It feels like a competition, but Michael has no reason to be fighting. At the end of the day, when they go back to Europe and tour, Calum’s coming with. They’re in the band now, and that’s it. Calum picked him. Calum chose the band, chose touring, chose to give up football, chose Michael. 

Plus anyway, João Pedro’s handsomeness shouldn’t be a factor at all, because it’s not like Michael has some big stupid crush on Calum or anything. He doesn’t need to be handsome. Calum likes him just the way he is, Michael’s pretty sure. Even if Calum decides to hook up with João Pedro or Gustavo or both of them, Michael won’t care, because Calum chose him in _life_ and that’s the important thing. 

Michael defends that lie to himself for about twelve seconds — he counts — and then gives up.

He doesn’t want Calum to have handsome Brazilian friends with charming accents. He doesn’t like the idea of Calum hooking up with any of them. In fact, he hates that idea so passionately that he almost calls Calum right then just to share that opinion. Instead, he calls Luke, for some reason.

“Yeah?” Luke says.

“Did you meet Calum’s friends?”

“Yeah, he brought them by our room. They’re nice. They got on well with Ash, anyway.”

"Did you think they were hot?"

"I don't know, I guess," Luke says. "Like, objectively, yeah. Did you?"

“I thought they were kind of stupid,” Michael says. Luke sighs.

“You would think that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Luke says. “Just don’t be jealous, Mikey. It makes you really annoying and we’re in Brazil, for fuck’s sake. Don’t be annoying in Brazil.”

Maybe Luke and Ashton are conspiring, and that’s why Luke is echoing Ashton’s words from just this morning. Again, Michael says, “I’m not jealous,” although he is. “You’re annoying.”

“Okay,” Luke says. “Is that why you called? To tell me I’m annoying?”

“No, but you can always use a reminder.”

“I’m gonna hang up unless you say something worth not hanging up on in the next five seconds,” Luke tells him.

“Don’t fuck Ashton too loud tonight,” Michael says, and hears the dial tone. He just feels kind of shitty for that, though, so he calls right back.

“ _What._ ”

“Sorry. That was bitchy.”

“...Yeah, it was.”

“They weren’t stupid,” Michael says. “I’m being stupid. Aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Luke tells him. “I mean, you’re just being jealous, and it’s making you stupid.”

“Well, I feel like I have a right,” Michael huffs, thinking about the way Calum’s face had fallen in response to Michael’s totally cold-shouldered greeting of the Brazilians. “He was my friend first.”

“You don’t own Calum,” Luke goes. “Do you hear yourself?”

Michael does, although he’d rather not. He knows, okay, he _knows_ he sounds childish, and it’s really not fair, but it’s so hard to resist the instinct. He’s a bitch at heart, and he’s also very possessive. 

Luke, though, well, he would know. Luke’s borne the brunt of Michael’s bitchiness — Michael only ever hated Luke out of a defensiveness of his friendship with Calum, so Luke knows what it’s like to be the Brazilians, and maybe Michael should listen to him. Maybe. It’s rare that Luke knows best, but once in a blue moon it happens, and Michael’s feeling just guilty enough to be susceptible to listening to Luke, this one time.

“I have to be nice to them, don’t I,” he groans.

“Yeah,” Luke says. “Imagine if you’d never been nice to me, though, we’d have never made a band. Think about it like that. Maybe you can benefit from being nice to them. They’re actually pretty nice guys.”

“I don’t want to know that they’re nice, Luke.”

“I don’t care. They _are_ nice. You’re the asshole. Just be nicer. It’s so easy to be nicer.”

Of course Luke would think that. Everyone loves Luke out of necessity; _you_ try looking at his whole puppy-dog, big-baby-blues schtick and not want to solve world hunger just to see him smile. Michael has to work to be liked. That, he supposes, makes Luke the best frontman for the band, even though Michael thinks Calum’s definitely the hottest, and on principle the hottest member should be the frontman. But Calum doesn’t want to be the frontman anyway — not that Luke does. That’s what he gets for being lead singer.

“They’re Calum’s friends,” Luke adds. “If you’re mean to them he’s going to be upset with you.”

Yeah, okay, Michael knows that. And he also knows it makes him an asshole if that’s the thing that sways him, but whatever, at least he’s being swayed.

“Fine.” Michael sighs, rolling his eyes for show even though nobody’s around to see him do it. “Nice. I’m super nice. I know how to be nice.”

“You have your moments.”

“Fuck you, I have loads of nice moments. I, like, exude niceness.”

Luke makes a disbelieving noise. “Okay.”

Obviously Luke’s not going to be convinced, but it doesn’t matter, because Luke’s not the target, so Michael just says, “Okay, I’m going. Thanks for answering even though I was a little bitch.”

“Love you,” Luke says, smiling, if his voice is anything to go by.

“Yeah you do.”

This time Michael hangs up. If only Calum could see him now. _just apologized to luke for bitching at him r u proud_ , he texts Calum. Calum answers immediately: _so proud <3 _.

Michael feels a little bit better about the handsome Brazilian friends, and he resolves not to think about it until it’s time for dinner.

  
  


Dinner is at a pizza place. Michael gives the Brazilians a grudging point for this — he’s going to be nice if it kills him, feels guilty enough in retrospect with the way he treated them when Calum had brought them up. It’s not Calum’s fault he’s absolutely delightful. Anyone would want to be friends with him. And Calum is so fucking likable and charismatic that he just has to be friendly to everyone, which means he’s _friends_ with everyone — a regular Ashton Irwin, he is, and Michael knows he’s never in his life going to have Calum as just his again, and maybe he should grow up and acknowledge that.

Plus, Calum’s hurt expression (poorly concealed with irritation) from earlier in the hotel room has left an imprint on Michael’s brain.

As they move up the line to order, Gustavo assures him with a broad, handsome grin that this is the best pizza in Leblon, as if Michael is going to be judging him if they’ve only taken them to the third-best pizza in Leblon, as if Michael would _know_. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Michael says, but then he gets to the counter and flounders because he has no idea how to say that he wants a slice of Hawaiian and a slice of pepperoni, and then he looks at the menu and realizes they don’t even _have_ Hawaiian — what kind of fucking pizza place doesn’t have Hawaiian? — and he looks at Gustavo in a way that’s sort of like _you should have prepared for me not knowing how to order,_ and Gustavo says, “What do you want?” and Michael says two slices of pepperoni, and Gustavo rattles off some Portuguese for the cashier, and the cashier replies with more Portuguese, and Gustavo says, “Do you want a drink?” and Michael says, “No, holy shit, I just want to sit down,” which apparently does not bear translating because the next thing he knows he’s being ushered to their table where Calum and João Pedro are already sitting. They’ve only been here about five minutes and Michael already hates it. He wants to go home. Preferably with Calum. Does it count as being nice to the Brazilians if he decides to spare them his company? Is that a mercy?

He’s about to open his mouth and suggest it, say _I think I’m going to take my pizza back to the hotel, I’m not feeling great_ , but Calum breaks off mid-conversation with João Pedro and shoots him a grateful smile. It’s obvious this is important to him. Michael remembers his promise.

He can be nice. Contrary to popular belief, and, like, recent behavior, Michael is not only capable but exceptional at being nice. Calum once described him as _rough edges with a heart of gold_ , which Michael had taken immense pride in, but he needs to focus less on the rough edges tonight and start milking the heart of gold. If Calum really believes Michael has it, then Michael has it. Calum knows him better than he knows himself. It would be really annoying, but Michael’s pretty sure he knows Calum better than Calum does, so they’re kind of even.

“They don’t have Hawaiian,” Calum says to him before Michael can even open his mouth, proving Michael’s internal point.

“Thanks for the fucking warning,” Michael shoots back. Under the table, Calum’s feet find his, and they play footsie for a second before Calum kicks Michael in the shin, and Michael makes a face at him. “What’s the name of this place, again?”

“Vezpa,” João Pedro says helpfully. 

“I thought that was a scooter.”

“Sometimes,” Calum snarks, “things are named for other things.”

“Why do you guys like this piece of shit,” Michael wonders to the Brazilians. Gustavo chuckles, which Michael counts as a silent victory. 

“So Calum says you are going to the game tomorrow,” João Pedro says conversationally, leaning back into his chair. 

“Uh, yeah.” That’s the reason they’re here in the first place. Calum had been so annoyingly persistent about getting to see the World Cup. Michael can’t help but wonder — _especially_ now, with his stupid footie camp friends — if this is Calum’s weird way of communicating that he misses football, or, like, wants to quit the band and go back to playing. Not that he expects Calum to quit the band. He’s been reassured enough times by Calum that that’s an impossibility, plus anyway Calum would have to be an idiot to quit a band like theirs as quickly as they’re growing and anyway they’ve _just_ released an album, so.

The point is, Calum’s not going anywhere. Physically, anyway. And hopefully not emotionally either. Michael thinks that might actually be worse.

“Are you guys coming?” he thinks to ask, in a way that could be interpreted as inviting, crossed fingers pressed against his thighs, _please say no please say no please say no please —_

“Funny,” João Pedro says, and his grin hasn’t even fucking wavered one bit. “Like we could afford to see the World Cup games.”

“We will be watching on TV though,” Gustavo puts in. “Maybe we can get drinks later. Have you had a caipirinha?”

Obviously not, Michael wants to say, how is he going to order a caipi-whatever-the-fuck when he doesn’t even know how to ask for _pizza_ in this fucking country. Brazil is rapidly rising on Michael’s list of Top Ten Places To Never Return To. “No,” he goes.

“Again with the caipirinhas,” Calum says with a teasing smile that Michael wants all for himself. “Shut up about the caipirinhas. We’re barely legal.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you, _cara_ ,” João Pedro says, clapping a hand on Calum’s back. Michael glares into the table. “Besides, once you try cachaça you can never go back.”

 _Don’t be petty,_ Michael thinks stiffly to himself, and instead says, “Europe has good pints,” in a tone that’s kind of like, _maybe you could come see us on tour there!_ So like bragging, but in a really amicable way. “That’s where we’re going after the game. Back to tour.”

“Well, but does it have cachaça,” João Pedro says, as if Michael knows what cachaça is. 

“I thought they were called caipirinhas.” Definitely fucked the pronunciation on that one.

“Caipirinha is the drink,” Gustavo explains. “It is made with cachaça. Maybe tomorrow night.”

Michael’s trying to figure out a _nice_ way to reject that offer when to his great surprise Calum jumps in. “Can’t tomorrow night,” he says apologetically. “We have plans for after the game, and we need to turn in early as possible to get our flight on the fifth.”

He looks at Michael after he says this, eyes twinkling a little bit. Michael tries to frown without frowning, because that’s a lie; they have no plans. The only plan for this entire trip was to go to the game, and why wouldn’t Calum want to hang out with his cool Brazilian friends as much as possible, why _lie_ , but, well, an out’s an out. “Sorry,” he says to the Brazilians, and even kind of feels it. “Maybe you can give us a list of, like, top Brazilian foods to try before we go. There must be some that you can buy in stores.”

“Pão de queijo, maybe,” Gustavo says to João Pedro, who nods thoughtfully and adds, “Brigadeiros?” which has Gustavo nodding in return. 

“Text the list to Calum,” Michael reminds them. They’re not going to remember.

Then their pizza is ready, so Michael spends most of the rest of dinner mostly sitting in silence while Gustavo and João Pedro are absolutely charming and Calum is even more charming and Michael feels like this crotchety old fourth wheel. Before now, he hadn’t even really thought it was possible to fourth wheel, but it definitely is. Michael definitely is.

At least the pizza is good. As his attempt at an olive branch, Michael gruffly admits this to Gustavo, who beams in a face-splitting way, and Calum looks so delighted by Michael’s brief moment of redemption that it makes Michael want to keep being nice to these guys. The standards are so impossibly low that just _talking civilly_ merits that look of pride from Calum.

 _I’m an asshole_ , Michael realizes.

João Pedro offers to buy them drinks again after they finish their pizza, but Calum refuses again before Michael gets the chance, and then Calum is hugging his friends goodbye with the two-cheek kiss thing that Brazilians apparently do. Michael counts, but neither hug lasts half as long as a standard Michael-and-Calum hug, so everyone is still in the clear. Gustavo moves to hug Michael and in the interest of being nicer Michael allows it, and Gustavo does the two-cheek kiss thing. Then João Pedro does the same.

“Nice to meet you,” he tells Michael. “Prazer, as we would say.”

“Prazer,” Michael echoes, aware that he could be being fucked with. “Uh, same to you, I guess.” He glances sidelong at Calum, who’s watching him, and then decides, fuck it, and says, “Thanks for making footie camp awful enough that Calum decided to do the band instead.” It sounds so mean the moment he says it, and Michael wants to take it back, even though he’d meant it as a joke. But thankfully João Pedro just laughs.

“Please,” he says. “Like anything could have pulled him away from you.”

Michael doesn’t really know what that means, but he smiles without intending to. For some reason, that makes him like João Pedro more than anything else he’s said all night.

They walk back to the hotel as soon as the Brazilians take their leave. Calum laces his fingers through Michael’s like that’s a normal thing they do — which it’s not, but it’s not _not_ — possibly under the guise of leading him along, but that excuse falls through quickly, and neither of them let go. Michael would rather never let go of Calum’s hand like this, just fitting so perfectly in his that it’s like they were _built_ to hold hands, for fuck’s sake. He squeezes, and Calum squeezes back. The night is gorgeous, it’s three in the morning on Michael’s mental clock, and everything is more perfect than it has ever been.

“Thanks for coming,” Calum says sleepily, swinging their arms between them. “I don’t know why you don’t like them, but I could tell you were trying to not be an asshole. So thanks.”

“You lied about having plans tomorrow,” Michael recalls. “What was that about?”

Calum shrugs. “I wanted to make sure we got time for us, you know? I wanna see Brazil with you. Just you.”

Michael feels a shot of euphoria in his veins, a blanket sensation of adoration, or something. Thinking about Calum rejecting more time with friends he doesn’t know when he’ll get a chance to see again just because he wants to spend time with Michael. Any lingering animosity towards the Brazilians dissipates with Calum’s words, and Michael knows there’s a stupid smile creeping onto his face.

“And I know you don’t really like them,” Calum adds, kind of ruining the effect.

“It’s not that I don’t like them,” Michael says. Calum looks at him like _yeah right it’s not_ , and Michael sighs. “Okay, well, it’s nothing they did.”

“Duh.”

“I just mean…I don’t know. I’m happy you’re in the band. I didn’t know you were still in touch with people from camp. I want us to be enough for you. I want to be enough.”

Calum sighs. “Michael, you stupid idiot,” he says. “When haven’t you been enough for me?”

 _When you went to footie camp for a month in Brazil,_ Michael thinks to himself. He shrugs.

“I can have other friends,” Calum continues. “You know that, right? So can you.” 

“I don’t want other friends,” Michael says. “Except Jack Barakat.”

“Who you’re already basically friends with,” Calum points out, which isn’t true — he’s not friends with Jack Barakat yet, just because they’ve spoken maybe once or twice and — they’re not friends, anyway. “Nobody else is gonna be my best friend, though,” Calum says. “Like, you’re my favorite.”

It feels warm, suddenly; it must be a Brazil thing, the night growing randomly warmer. Between their conjoined hands, Michael feels his palm start to get a bit sweaty, and considers breaking the connection to wipe his hand against his jeans, but he’d much rather stay holding Calum’s hand. “You’re my favorite,” he says. “Obviously.”

“You're always gonna be my favorite,” Calum says. “Don’t think just because I have Brazilian footie camp friends that you’re being replaced. You’re not.”

“Okay,” Michael says, feeling reassured and kind of silly for needing to be reassured about this. It’s not like Calum reminds him all the fucking time that they’re best friends, or anything. Curious what Calum will say, and also in his 3-a.m.-mindset, he says, “I think João Pedro wanted to hook up with you.”

“What? Why?”

Michael shrugs. “He just seemed like he did.”

“No he didn’t,” Calum says. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure he thinks we’re together.”

Michael stammers until he gathers himself. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. What the fuck? Just, what the fuck? “What the fuck? Why?”

“Beats me,” Calum says. As if he hasn’t just dropped an earth-shattering bomb at Michael’s feet.

“We’re not,” Michael goes, which is a stupid thing to say — like Calum doesn’t _know_ that the two of them aren’t in a relationship. And does Michael now sound like he doesn’t _want_ that? Should he have just not said anything? Or would Calum get suspicious?

“I know,” Calum replies, and the hotel comes into view. “I don’t think it’d be the worst thing, though.”

“What are you saying right now,” Michael asks. “Are you saying we _should_ be together?”

It’s hard to be sure, because of the nighttime, but it looks like Calum is blushing. “Never mind,” he says. Michael feels his fingers flex as he attempts to break their hand-hold. He tightens his grip. 

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t,” he says. “It’s just three o’clock in the morning in my brain and if you’re asking me to be your boyfriend or something I need you to be more clear about it.”

“I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend,” Calum says. Then: “...But, uh, what if I was? Hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically?” Michael raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask and find out?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Calum says. “If you say no, can we pretend I didn’t ask?”

“No.”

“I won’t ask, then.”

“No, ask me. Fine, we can pretend. I don’t care.”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Calum asks, and for a really long second Michael considers saying _no_ just to be the worst person in the history of ever. But he just grins.

“Of course I want to be your boyfriend, what kind of a stupid fucking question is that?”

“Don’t say _of course_!” Calum protests. “I don’t know. What if you fancied, like, Gustavo?” 

Michael laughs. There might be a horse race in his stomach; something’s kicking up a lot of dust and butterflies in there. He scans Calum's face and is relieved to find that familiarly teasing look. “What if _I_ fancied him? What if _you_ did?”

“I would never,” Calum says. “He’s not my type at all.”

“What’s your type?”

Calum gives him a sweet smile, dripping honey right down to the gold in his eyes. “Oh, let me think. Pasty white lead guitarist of an Australian band called 5 Seconds of Summer. Preferably with green hair.”

“I was thinking of going blue, actually,” Michael says. “You must be thinking of someone else.” His face splits into a smile. “You’re a huge sap, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Calum agrees. “Can we go inside, please? The breeze is starting to get to me.”

Michael can see Calum starting to shiver, and anyway he’s exhausted, dead on his feet, still on European time, so he agrees, but they keep holding hands even as Michael fumbles for the room key card, and only let go so they can both change into pajamas. By the time they both collapse into bed Michael is falling asleep, practically, so he doesn’t complain when Calum wraps his arms around Michael, just cuddles further into Calum’s chest. In the morning, he’s probably going to be thinking a lot of thoughts, mainly consisting of _what the fuck is going on_ , but right now he can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be.

“No goodnight kiss?” he sleep-slurs into Calum’s t-shirt. Calum huffs a laugh and presses a lingering kiss to Michael’s forehead.

“Ask me again tomorrow,” he whispers. “Don’t want our first kiss to be when we’re both about to fall asleep.”

And, well, that logic is sound. Michael is asleep basically by the end of Calum’s sentence anyway, matching him breath for breath until he forgets to keep count.

  
  


They’re jolted awake by a furious pounding at the door. Michael jerks upright, and but Calum is slow, and just lazily blinks up at Michael, head still sunk into the pillow.

“Match starts in three hours!” It’s Ashton out there. Of fucking course it is. “Get up, get up, get up!”

“‘M gonna kill him,” Michael grumbles, and Calum snuffles a laugh. It’s nine in the morning but the jetlag must be receding, because it actually _feels_ like nine in the morning, which is _far_ too fucking early to be awake and _especially_ too early to be dealing with Ashton’s ridiculously overzealous attitude towards, like, football, and Brazil, and stuff. “Fuck off!” This directed, loudly, towards the door.

“As long as you’re awake!” Ashton calls back through the door, and then, “We’re gonna get breakfast in half an hour so you better be out by then!”

“Terrible,” Calum says under his breath. “Match isn’t for _three hours_.” 

“Even Calum doesn’t want to be awake right now!” Michael shouts. There’s no response. Ashton’s probably gone off elsewhere, most likely to bother Luke. Professional bother, that’s Ashton, should have been his title in the band because that’s really all he does.

Well, and he gives great advice and even better hugs, in the brief moments where he stops being an absolute shit, so maybe he can stay. For now.

Calum pulls lightly at Michael’s t-shirt. “Five more minutes,” he says, with a pout that Michael would challenge _anyone_ to resist. It doesn’t help that he still feels exhausted; six hours of sleep isn’t enough, even if it’s his usual amount, and the hotel bed is insanely comfortable, and Calum is so, so warm. And Calum is _here_ , and Michael seems to recall them having a pretty strange conversation last night, but he’d rather put off thinking about that until absolutely necessary.

“Okay,” he says. “But you’re taking the blame when Ashton comes banging on the door again.”

“Mhm,” Calum says, meaning that Michael will probably be taking the blame. Whatever. The prospect of going back to sleep cuddled up with Calum is more than worth whatever half-assed discipline attempt Ashton wants to try on him.

Michael shuffles back down the bed, head on the pillow. They’re very close, he realizes, not that they hadn’t been when they’d fallen asleep, but that had been different; curled into Calum’s chest, their faces aren’t this close, and being so tired had kind of forestalled Michael thinking things like _we could kiss right now_ and the natural extension of _I’d like to kiss you right now._ Now, though.

Calum’s got his eyes closed, but even as Michael’s kind of staring he goes, “Stop staring, you creep.”

“How do you know I’m staring?”

Calum opens his eyes, which catches Michael by surprise, and smirks. “Staring,” he repeats. “When I said five more minutes, you know I was talking about sleeping, right?”

Michael huffs. At the end of the bed, their legs are still tangled, calves sandwiched together, and every inch of Calum is pure warmth. Logically, Michael should feel more tired, should feel lulled back to sleep. “Am I stopping you? No.”

“Stop staring,” Calum says again. “You can stare later. Close your eyes. Go to sleep.”

“Maybe I like staring, ever think of that?”

“Do I look like I care?”

“What’s it to you if I stare?”

“I can’t fall asleep knowing you’re watching me,” Calum informs him, as if that’s a rational thing to say. “Mikey,” he whines. “I’m tired and Ashton’s going to come back in, like, literally three minutes.”

“Not my fault you look cute when you sleep,” Michael says.

“See how you like it when I stare while you’re trying to fall asleep,” Calum retorts. Then, “Fine, fuck you, but I’m turning over. You can stare at the back of my head.” When he turns, though, Michael just snakes an arm around his waist and pulls until they’re flush against each other, all of Calum’s back fitted against all of Michael’s front, and Calum makes a gentle noise, halfway between a hum and a sigh.

“I’m still staring at you,” Michael whispers into his ear.

“You’re an asshole,” Calum whispers back, but Michael can’t take that seriously when his heart’s just about to pound an escape route out of his chest from how hard it’s ramming against his ribcage. Calum wraps both of his hands around Michael’s one that’s curled into his shirtfront and sighs, properly. “G’night.”

Michael leaves a kiss against the back of Calum’s neck. In the daytime, he feels so much more aware of the things that are happening with them, and he wonders if Calum does too, if Calum feels self-conscious, if he feels weird. He doesn’t seem to, at any rate. In fact, already his breathing is evening out; in barely a minute he’s drifted back to sleep, leaving Michael awake and half-thinking, half-trying not to think about how nice Calum’s hair smells.

Seven minutes later the knock comes again, followed by, “You better be awake and showering in there!”

Calum groans. “I think we should kick Ashton out of the band.”

“Good morning.”

“Mm. Hi.” Calum twists his shoulders until he’s laying on his back, looking up at Michael with a small smile. “You’re so comfortable.”

“You already knew that,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “We’ve cuddled, like, a thousand times.”

“Yeah, but,” Calum says, falters, and then shakes his head. “Never mind.” Before Michael can push him, he kicks the covers off his legs and rolls out of bed, severing the connection between them. Michael feels cold. “I’m showering.”

“Okay,” Michael says, and gets out of bed himself, because he doesn’t want to stay there alone. “Don’t use up the hot water.” He’s not actually sure it’s possible for a hotel this nice to run out of hot water, and it’s not like Calum’s going to be the problem anyway; he’s the fastest to shower out of all of them, which makes him the best roommate.

Calum takes his shower while Michael texts the group, asking about breakfast. _getting it on the way!!!_ Ashton replies, with far too many exclamation marks. The reasons Michael loves Ashton are often the same reasons he hates him. 

Calum comes out of the shower with a towel around his waist, and Michael wonders if he’s allowed to, like, look. It’s never been a problem before, but it feels a lot more vulnerable now, after deciding ( _was that a real conversation? was that serious?_ ) to be boyfriends. Or whatever the fuck happened last night. Like, _was_ it serious? If Calum was joking but Michael still acts, like, into him, Calum is going to know that Michael had been sincere, which is embarrassing. But if Calum was serious and Michael _doesn’t_ act into him, maybe Calum will think Michael had been joking. 

“Your turn,” Calum says. Michael decides his internal dilemma can wait and just takes his fucking shower. When he comes out of the bathroom Calum is dressed and listening to something on his phone, so Michael gets dressed, and then he hits Calum’s ankle and says, “Come on.” Calum pulls out his headphones and gives Michael this beaming smile.

“Game day!” he says, with enough verbal exclamation marks that Ashton would be envious.

“Oh, God, not you too,” Michael says. Calum just rolls off the bed and grabs Michael by the hand and pulls the both of them towards the door. Really it’s more like he’s got a grip on Michael’s wrist, so Michael twists his arm out of Calum’s grasp, and when Calum turns to frown at him, Michael laces their fingers together.

“I’m not your slave,” he tells Calum. Calum wrinkles his nose and smiles.

“That’s what you think.”

“Wait, Calum, hold on.” There’s going to be Ashton to deal with, and Luke, and transport, and then there’s going to be a massive football game, and Michael knows he’s going to agonize all day unless he clears it up now. “Can we just talk a second?”

Calum nods. “Talk about what?”

“Uh,” Michael says, because he thought it was pretty obvious, “last night?”

“Oh. Okay. What? Are you — were you…”

“Were you?” Michael asks, and then they both kind of dopily stare at each other and Michael realizes they are getting absolutely nowhere. 

“I meant it if you did,” Calum says, a little stubbornly, scuffing his shoe against the floor, a nervous habit he’s never kicked. 

“What if I didn’t?” 

Calum gives him this look, like, _well did you?_ but Michael needs to know, so he stares Calum down, waits him out. He’s going to win this one. Calum’s resolve is nothing compared to Michael’s.

“Well, did you?”

Michael huffs. “You first.”

“I just said I meant it.”

“You said you meant it if I did. That’s not the same.”

“How is that different? Even if you didn’t mean it, now you know.”

“Okay, yes, I meant it,” Michael says exasperatedly. Calum snaps his eyes up to Michael’s, this silly, hopeful smile on his face. Michael feels warm everywhere. Their hands are still conjoined, he realizes, but that just feels normal.

“Is this allowed?” Calum wonders. “Can we just decide to be boyfriends?”

“Not like anyone else can decide for us,” Michael points out. “ _Now_ will you kiss me?”

Calum blushes. “Really?”

“Oh my God,” Michael says. “If you don’t kiss me I’m gonna kiss you. Is that what you want?”

“Kinda.” Calum juts out his chin, cheeky grin in place. Totally unfair that Michael has to be the one to do it after he _specifically_ asked Calum to, but, like, Michael really wants to kiss him. And if he has to be the one to do it, well, fuck it. Fine.

He leans in first, and Calum looks a little bit surprised, probably because he hadn’t expected Michael to give in so easy, but he tilts his head in time for their lips to connect, close-mouthed and sweet, and Michael pulls away after just a second, feeling like someone’s released a cage of angry lions into his stomach.

“Hey,” Calum complains before Michael can even say anything, and leans in again. This time Michael is caught off-guard; he startles a little before settling into the kiss, which feels, well, it feels right. It feels right. It makes _sense_ , to kiss Calum, for Calum to kiss him, to stand in this hotel room in Brazil and cling to the one thing that’s always made Michael feel at home. He lets Calum swipe his tongue over Michael’s bottom lip, and it doesn’t even feel weird. Like, it’s just Calum. And also, it’s _Calum_. And somehow there are no other words for it.

With his free hand he reaches for Calum; his fingers graze Calum’s waist before curving around to his back and staying there. Calum pulls back, so close that it would take a stiff breeze to push them together again, and laughs, a little bit.

“What?” Michael demands, gazing distractedly at how Calum licks his own lips, how his teeth scrape against his tongue.

“You don’t think it’s funny?” Calum says, still with the big, silly, happy grin, like he hasn’t a care in the world. “I mean, we just kind of made out.”

“Well, you’re kind of my boyfriend now,” Michael points out, ignoring the way the cage of lions roar furiously at the word.

“Well, good,” Calum says, and somehow his smile grows wider. “You’re kind of my boyfriend too, you know.”

“Should we tell Luke and Ashton, do you think?”

“Nah.” Calum bites his lip, and his grin turns to a smirk that tempts Michael to no end. “Let them figure it out.”

Michael laughs. “You’re awful. I love it.”

“Yeah, you do,” Calum goes, and then, “Okay, _now_ game time!” And he unceremoniously yanks Michael out the door behind him before Michael can say anything else or even kiss Calum one more time. 

It’s okay, though, Michael thinks, because they’re kind of boyfriends now, which means Michael can pretty much kiss Calum whenever he wants now. Which is good. Michael hopes Calum likes kissing because there’s going to be a lot of it.

Ashton is predictably insufferable for the entire drive to the arena, _Maracanã_ , he tells them, and then Calum grins because this is obviously a tidbit he’d already known. Michael wishes he were really invested in football; it’s only the trip to the stadium and already he’s bored of the sports talk. At least Luke is the same; he and Michael discuss the fan interaction at Corcovado and debate which All Time Low album is best until they arrive. He and Calum hold hands during the ride, which is nice, at least.

Michael lets himself be pushed and shuffled and moved around. They end up at a café for breakfast, or, well, this would really be brunch, staring at a menu of words they don’t understand. Luke’s got his phone out before they even stop moving, Google Translate poised and ready.

“Coffee,” Calum guesses, pointing at the words _cafe com leite_. “With milk, right? Like _cafe con leche?_ It’s probably the same.”

“I’ll have that, then,” Michael says. He looks up self-consciously; the café is bizarrely empty, but there’s a woman behind the counter who’s watching them with thinly veiled amusement.

“Look, they have croissants,” Ashton says, face right up close to the glass display. Michael sighs in relief.

“Four of them,” he instructs Ashton. “You can order, native boy.”

“I will,” Ashton retorts, and then turns back to the lady at the counter, who watches while Ashton makes a stammering disaster of himself trying to order, and then smiles.

“In English, if it’s easier,” she offers sweetly. Michael chokes on air and has to hide his face in Calum’s shoulder so he doesn’t laugh too loud, but Calum is stifling his own snickers into Michael’s hair. Ashton looks pink-cheeked; Luke looks kind of grumpy.

“Four croissants, please,” he says. “Um, _por favor_?” The lady nods encouragingly; Luke gets grumpier. “And, uh, coffee. I mean, café...con leche?”

“ _Café com leite_ , well done,” she says, still nodding and smiling. Luke huffs and throws himself down into the seat across from Michael.

“Don’t be jealous,” Michael finds himself saying to Luke. Luke gives him a bitchy glare.

“Your mum’s jealous.”

“Nice one,” Calum says. He grins over at Michael, who grins back, and Luke squints between the two of them.

“I feel like you guys are being weird,” he says.

“We’re not being weird.”

“Breakfast is ordered!” Ashton announces, taking the seat beside Luke with a flourish. “No thanks to you freeloaders.”

“Nice Portuguese, Ash, you really impressed the locals,” Michael snickers. Ashton flips him off, then slings an arm around Luke and starts chatting him up about whatever, and Luke looks significantly less grumpy.

Michael thinks to himself, at least he and Calum have figured it out.

They finish their coffees and eat while they walk, with Ashton leading the way because, despite their taunts, he really is the only one who cared enough to look up directions to the stadium. The closer they get the more pumped Calum becomes, until they get inside and he’s practically vibrating with excitement. Whenever Michael thinks about making fun, he just imagines that this is a joint blink-182 and All Time Low concert, and he understands why Calum is losing his mind. 

They have really nice seats thanks to One Direction; no way 5 Seconds of Summer could have gotten them, but when Louis had caught wind that they were planning to go to Brazil to catch a World Cup game he’d gotten this twinkle in his eye, said, “I’m on it, lads, don’t even worry about it for a second,” and then next thing they knew they’d each gotten a ticket for one of the best sections. Louis, in that way that famous people do, had waved them off when they’d asked how they could thank him, or repay him, and just told them to have a good time on his behalf. “And drink,” he’d said, then glanced at Luke and added, impishly, “if you can.” Which had resulted in a water bottle fight before soundcheck, to the dismay of management.

Now that they’re here, though, Michael is split between wanting to curl up and go home and being swept up in the atmosphere of it.

It’s loud. It’s _so_ loud, almost earsplitting, and the game doesn’t start for another hour, but the chatter fills the stadium. Michael kind of wonders if this is what people who come to their shows feel like. Especially watching them play. It’s hard to believe anybody comes to a One Direction concert to see 5 Seconds of Summer play, despite what many fans have reassured them. No, not just hard; kind of damn near impossible to believe. 

Calum turns to Michael, gleaming smile across his face, and leans in close. “I’m really happy you’re here,” he says into Michael’s ear. “I’m really happy we’re here.”

Michael says, “Me too,” because he’s blushing, and he _is_ happy. He’d be happy to be anywhere with these guys; he’d be happy anywhere with Calum.

“You’re the best friend ever,” Calum says. “Oh, wait. Best boyfriend ever.”

“Oh yeah,” Michael says, “does that mean I can kiss you here?”

“I’m not gonna stop you.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.” Michael turns his head and catches Calum in a kiss. He’s conscious of being in a public space, and being a semi-public figure, at least, but the seats around them have yet to fill up completely, and besides, Michael and Calum both have baseball caps, and they’re not that recognizable, at least Michael doesn’t think so. Plus, nobody knows they’re here — the Brazilian girls had kept their word and refrained from posting the pictures anywhere any of them could find. And Michael knows there’s a lot to think about here, and eventually they’re going to have to talk about this relationship like it’s real, if it’s going to be real ( _which it is_ ), but for now, for this one fucking football match, they can just take it easy. 

Except for, “Were you guys just kissing?”

Calum looks over at Luke, who’s just returned from buying snacks and beer with Ashton.

“Maybe,” he says. “Why, are you jealous?”

“Are you, like,” Luke says, floundering. “ _Have_ you been? Kissing? Is that a thing?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Michael says, waggling his eyebrows. Calum snorts.

“I’d like to know,” Ashton puts in, “and we will withhold snacks until we get answers.”

“Calum and I decided to be boyfriends,” Michael says. 

“You’re such a sucker!”

“He said he’d withhold _snacks_ , Calum, do you want to go an entire footie match without snacks? Come on.”

“Yeah, but.” Calum crosses his arms. “Well, whatever. Okay, Michael and I are boyfriends now.”

Ashton and Luke both blink. “Since when?”

“Yesterday night slash this morning.”

“And before you say anything about it,” Michael adds, “just. Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Luke echoes, looking kind of annoyed. “This is our band too, you know. You can’t just —”

“We know,” Michael says, pretending like he and Calum have Already Had This Conversation, which they haven’t and probably hadn’t planned to. “Look, we know, it’s a thing we should probably talk about, like, as a band, but — can we not? Today? Can we just pretend for today that we’re just, like. People?”

Ashton says, “Fine by me. I’ve been rooting for this for awhile anyway.”

“What?” Luke protests. “Why didn’t I know?”

“You have no observational skills.”

“I do too!”

“Who’s playing in this match?”

Luke stares at Ashton. “That’s not fair, you _know_ I don’t follow —” But he’s cut off by Calum’s ringing laugh, followed quickly by Ashton, and then Michael, because even _Michael_ knows who’s playing, and then it’s just Luke, levying half-assed defenses until he starts to giggle despite himself.

And just like that, everything is normal again.

When the match starts, all that Michael can think about is holding on tightly to Calum. He stands when Calum does, cheers when Calum cheers, and drinks slightly more than Calum drinks. He only lets go of Calum to go to the bathroom, and only doesn’t force Calum to come with because he doesn’t want to tear Calum away from the game when he’s obviously super invested in it. So he goes alone, like the adult that he definitely is not, and makes it back in one piece, and then the match continues and Germany scores once and everything goes fucking _insane,_ even Calum, who’s so caught up, flushed and screaming _GOOOOOL_ with the entire stadium that Michael has to kiss him. The tail end of Calum’s enthusiastic yell is swallowed up in Michael’s mouth, and he’s grinning so hard they have to break apart after just a second. Michael’s pretty sure Luke and Ashton are gossiping about how it’s weird to watch the two of them kiss, but he doesn’t really care.

“Hey,” he says into Calum’s ear, during one of the calmer moments where there doesn’t seem to be anything tremendously exciting happening. “Wanna go to the beach tonight?”

Calum turns his head halfway towards Michael, eyes still on the field. “I was gonna ask you that.”

“Well, I asked you.”

“Well then yes, I do. It’s cute that we were on the same page, that’s all.”

“We’re cute,” Michael decides. Calum cuts his eyes from the game for a second to give Michael his full smile.

“We are,” he agrees, and kisses Michael on the nose.

Nobody scores after the one goal, and the match ends after the allotted ninety minutes with everyone going batshit crazy for reasons beyond Michael’s understanding — like, they shouldn’t be surprised, they’ve all been watching this game, they knew the score before the time was up. Doesn’t seem to matter to anyone, least of all Calum, who’s bouncing on the balls of his feet and chattering happily away with Ashton about the game. Luke and Michael make eye contact and make twin _aren’t they adorable_ grins, which is funny because Calum is Michael’s boyfriend but Ashton isn’t really Luke’s anything.

“You should just ask, you know,” Michael says as they’re leaving the stadium. There’s a steady stream of people so he’s got one eye on the back of Calum’s shirt, which is also kind of just an excuse to stare at his shoulders. Luke is watching Ashton.

“Ask what?”

“Ashton,” Michael says. “Whatever you want from him, you should just ask.”

“I don’t want anything from Ashton,” Luke says, looking bewildered.

“I mean, like, if you like him, tell him, and I bet you’ll be surprised,” Michael says. While Luke does a double-take, “He didn’t say anything to me, before you ask. I just have a feeling.”

Luke crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re just being weirdly romantic because of whatever the fuck happened to you and Calum.”

“Okay, don’t tell him. Live your life in fear.”

“That’s pretty rich coming from you.”

“Thank you,” Michael says graciously. “I am pretty rich.”

Luke laughs out loud and Michael wraps an arm around his shoulders. Maybe he _is_ feeling weirdly romantic, or a little bit tipsy, but he fucking loves Luke. He loves their whole fucking band. He even loves all of One Direction, despite their absence. Louis most of all, probably, although it’s impossible to rank them once you spend enough time with them. But Louis is really responsible for their skyrocket to — it isn’t fame, but whatever pseudo-fame this high they’re riding is, it’s because of Louis.

The ride back to the hotel is surprisingly quiet, almost tired. Calum and Ashton wear themselves out only minutes after they start driving, and then Calum leans his head on Michael’s shoulder and starts playing with the hem of his shirt.

“That was awesome,” he says sincerely. “Thanks for letting me force you guys to come to Brazil, guys.”

“Hey, great fucking idea, Cal,” Ashton says brightly, and Luke nods his assent.

“Well, I think it sucked,” Michael declares. “Fuck Brazil and fuck football. Worst sport ever.” Calum elbows him in the stomach. “Joking, I’m kidding! Sensitive much?”

“Worst boyfriend ever,” Calum grumbles.

“You said _best_ boyfriend ever like two hours ago.”

“Maybe you’re both, ever think of that?”

Michael chuckles and threads their fingers together, and then the drive back to the hotel is calm.

Luke and Ashton retire to their room. Michael tries to shoot Luke a meaningful look but Luke doesn’t really look at him, so that doesn’t land. And he and Calum go back to their room to put on swim shorts, just in case they decide to get in the water, even though Michael’s kind of tired already and he’s not really in the mood to swim. 

All told it’s almost five in the evening when they finally get to the beach. Michael leads them, with the memory from going with Ashton relatively fresh in his mind. There’s an easy breeze, and they hold hands, and as the beach comes into view Calum breaks the silence between them.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Michael presses his lips together like that’s a normal question to receive from your best-friend-recently-turned-boyfriend. “I don’t know.”

“What? How can you not know?”

“Well, I don’t think I’d know if I had.”

Calum sits down in the sand, and once again Michael makes the concession, although he’s thinking about making a PowerPoint presentation on why sand is the root of all evil, complete with that Anakin Skywalker quote.

“How would you know if you were, then?”

Michael shrugs. The beach is busier now than it had been at five in the morning when he’d come with Ashton; there’s a steady stream of noise weaving its way through their conversation, punctuated by loud peals of laughter, bells ringing on bikes as they whizz by, music blaring from passing cars.

“I don’t know,” he says again.

“Full of answers, aren’t you?” Calum says, shouldering Michael.

“Well, fine. Have you ever been in love?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, and Michael jerks. He’s not sure what he expected, but not that. Who could Calum possibly have been in love with? They’re fucking eighteen years old, and it’s not like Calum had been Mr. Popularity in school. More than Michael, yeah, but being best friends with Michael had significantly dragged Calum’s social status down. Nobody was lining up outside either of their doors.

“What the fuck?” sums it up pretty decently. “With who?”

“I don’t want to say,” Calum says.

“Well, I kind of think you have to, since you brought it up,” Michael says. “Healthy relationships are built on communication and stuff.”

Calum hums, and then, ignoring all of that, says, “You know I really mean this, right? Like, I want this, for real. You, I mean. All of it. For a long time.”

Michael breathes out. It feels like they’ve been a little bit in limbo since last night — and this morning they talked without really talking, and hearing Calum say it like that, like it’s easy, like it’s a fact, feels like the weight of a building lifted off his chest.

“Me too,” he says. “I guess we should talk about the band, right? And talk about it with Luke and Ashton.”

“No, I mean, well, yes, but that’s not what I meant,” Calum says. “Like, if I had to pick between you and the band, I’d choose you. Not that I think I’m gonna have to, but — you know. You’re, like, I don’t know. I really like you. Whatever you want, I want.”

Oh, Michael thinks, and something hot and fierce settles under his ribs, and he says, “Oh, I have been in love, actually.”

Calum says, “What?” and Michael says, “I kinda feel like eighteen is too young to be in love, though, right? Don’t you think so?” and Calum says, “I think we can do whatever we want,” looking at Michael like he’s on the verge of saying something else, and so Michael tells him, “You, I’m in love with you, obviously,” and Calum’s face grows a huge smile and he says, “Well, I’m glad we’re both in love with each other, then,” and kisses Michael, palms cupping his cheeks, before either of them can fuck it up any further.

The waves crash against the shore for a few moments before either of them moves. “Consider this our first date,” Calum finally says. “I’ll buy you an ice cream and everything.” And they wander along the beach until they find someplace to buy ice cream even though they haven’t had dinner yet, and Calum stumbles through ordering one, like the perfect non-Brazilian boyfriend he is, and Michael’s heart _soars_ and he wonders how he could have ever possibly resented Brazil. 

While Calum orders Michael does a little bit of Google Translate on his own, and when Calum turns to offer Michael’s ice cream to him, Michael takes his and says, “ _E_ _u te amo._ ”

“I assume you just told me that I’m the most amazing boyfriend in the history of ever and you’re lucky to have me,” Calum says without missing a beat, “in which case you’re right.”

Somehow, the sunset paints layers into the sky, pink purple blue orange stacked on top of each other. Michael watches the colors melt as he polishes off his ice cream. It looks too picturesque, just like most of Rio, like if he were carrying a better camera he could just start selling postcards from his own photos. “God, this is pretty,” he exhales, one hand in Calum’s. “Almost the best first date ever.”

“Almost?” Calum repeats, affronted. “I’ve been a perfect gentleman!”

“Yeah, but is this an All Time Low concert?” Michael makes one of those sympathetic expressions that’s actually just condescending, and pats Calum on the back, like, _good try._ “Just wait ‘til I take _you_ on a date. You’re gonna be so impressed.”

“You could do it now,” Calum says. “We need to have dinner anyway.”

“This is still your date,” Michael replies. Calum huffs like he thought he’d gotten off the hook.

“We shouldn’t get dinner without the others,” he says. “Like, I don’t think Luke and Ashton have eaten either.”

“They’ll probably get room service and, like, bang.”

Calum hums through a laugh. “Fine. What do you feel like?”

Michael feels like pizza again, but they literally just had it and it’s probably best if he doesn’t gorge himself on Brazilian pizza in case, like, he becomes sick of it and starts to hate Brazil again. Not that he’s likely to become sick of pizza ever, but he tells Calum that he doesn’t care.

“I know we just had pizza,” Calum muses, “but I’m kind of in the mood for pizza.”

Michael wonders if it’s too early to be married while he grins. “You know I won’t say no to pizza.”

They eat under a darkening sky, at the same place they’d eaten yesterday, and the pizza is just as good this time as it had been the night before, maybe better because now it’s _date_ pizza, and this is all a date. Calum’s paying and everything, like the true gentleman he is. Wants to be. Whatever. Michael even looks up how to order pizza, roughly, but he butchers the Google Translate results, and it’s obvious that the bloke behind the register can tell that Michael’s not a native. ( _Carioca,_ Ashton’s enthusiastic voice echoes in Michael’s mind.)

When the pizza’s done they sit for some time, people-watching in a comfortable quiet, holding hands across the table. It’s absurdly domestic, but Michael has this feeling he’s not really going to get a chance to be absurdly domestic with Calum for a while once they go back to tour, so he’s stockpiling on soft moments such as these ones like a squirrel for winter. It’ll be weird on tour, probably, trying to navigate this new landscape of, like, being in love with your bandmate, not to mention in a relationship with him, but — it’s worth it, is the thing. It’s worth it, all of it is. Terrifyingly, even losing the band might be worth it, if it comes to that. Which it won’t, of course it won’t, but it scares Michael a little bit that he’d be willing to make that sacrifice after they’ve worked so hard for this, all for Calum. Calum had said it but Michael feels it too; if it ever comes down to it, Michael will choose Calum.

He’s eighteen and he shouldn’t feel like his heart has already been signed over, but here he is anyway.

It’s just gone six when Calum sighs and says, “We should probably go back,” which is true. With the sun fully set, it’s harder to navigate the streets, and they’re foreign enough in the daylight, plus they don't have Ashton and his uncanny knack for directions with them. They start back down Rua Rainha Guilhermina (Michael’s learned the name), arms once again swinging. Michael gets deja vu from last night. This time they don’t halt outside the hotel, just go straight up and into their room.

“Leaving tomorrow,” Michael points out after they’re both changed into pajamas and clean of sand. “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” Calum says, flopping backwards onto the bed. “I mean, I arrived in Brazil single and having never seen a World Cup game, and now I can confirm neither of those things will be true of me when I leave.”

“Unless I break up with you before we get on the plane,” Michael says. Calum rolls his eyes.

“If you break up with me, I’m not getting back together with you.”

“That’s such a lie. You love me too much.”

“I don’t love you more than my pride.”

That’s also definitely not true. Calum has, like, no pride. It’s why he’s so much better than Michael at all this cheesy relationship stuff. “Fine, I won’t break up with you,” he surrenders. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Sure, what’s on?” Calum asks, like Michael isn’t just going to pull up Netflix on his laptop and pick the first thing on his list. 

“Could do a binge if you want,” he says. “It’s only half six.”

“Fine,” Calum says, and then yawns. “I’m a little tired anyway, just pick whatever.”

Michael puts on the first season of _Orange Is The New Black_ because they’ve both already seen it. About midway through the third episode, Ashton texts asking when they’ll be back and if they want to watch a movie or something, and Michael feels a little guilty texting back _already back just didnt wanna see your fuckin face_ and then _cal and i are watching oitnb_. But Ashton just says _use protection jk thats weird pretend i didnt say that_ as if he doesn’t have the ability to delete what he writes in texts before sending them, and then _goodnight get enough sleep flight’s at 9am and i absolutely will drag your asses out of bed if necessary don’t care if ur naked xoxo_. Michael snorts and shares the text with Calum, who giggles.

“He’s kinda right,” he says. “I mean about sleeping. How funny would it be if we slept naked just to fuck with him?”

“This room is too cold to sleep naked,” Michael says. Plus, he really wants to cuddle and he doesn't want to be naked while they do because that’s just a little weird. At least Michael thinks it would get weird. He hopes Calum doesn’t push it, and Calum, being amazing, doesn’t, just shuffles down in the bed and says, “How about we go to sleep after we finish the episode?”

They watch through to the end of the episode, and then Michael shuts his laptop and gets out of bed to plug it in and says, “Wanna be big spoon or little?”

“Don’t care,” Calum says as Michael hits the light and crawls into bed. “Little.” So Michael wraps him up, one arm cozy over Calum’s waist and the other under his neck, and smiles at him.

“Love you,” he says, meaning it in all the same ways he has before and a couple different ones.

“Love you,” Calum returns. “Goodnight. Don’t oversleep or Ashton will drag us out of bed naked.”

“Maybe I want him to,” Michael says with a smirk, and Calum chuckles, which is a wonderful last thing to hear before they both kind of drift off to sleep.

  
  


Paul picks them up from the airport, seventeen hours and one layover later. Paul is a legend for doing so, even though Michael supposes it’s his job, but still; it’s six in the morning, although it feels like 1am in his mind, and Paul still gives them this comforting smile and ushers them into the car. Michael feels drowsy from the early wakeup and all the day’s travels, and by the time they get to the hotel he’s dead on his feet. On the bright side, there are no crazed fangirl mobs this early in the morning, just Calum’s annoyingly upbeat chatter that has Michael glaring at him.

“You need to shut up right now or I’ll cut your tongue out,” he hisses finally as they get out of the car and Paul guides them to the elevator.

Calum slides an arm around Michael’s waist and kisses his cheek. “Grumpy.”

“I’m tired,” Michael complains. “It’s almost midnight.” It’s almost seven in the morning, actually, but same thing.

Luke and Ashton are in a similar state; Ashton, as the self-declared Most Responsible Band Member, had slept on the plane, and Luke had not, and now it’s Ashton supporting Luke’s halfway-dozing body as they shuffle wearily into the elevator. What a motley crew they must look, Michael thinks bemusedly. He sneaks glances at the way Ashton is stroking Luke’s hair and smirks, wishing Luke were awake enough to see him make the told-you-so face.

Typically they try to switch up who rooms with whom, but it’s pretty obvious they’ll be splitting tonight the same way they’d done in Brazil, and they’ll have to talk, later, when they’re not swaying with sleep, about what the sleeping arrangements will look like going forward. They’ll have to have a band meeting, just the four of them, and talk about this thing between Calum and Michael, and then they’ll probably want to tell One Direction, and possibly management as well, and possibly their families, and a whole lot of people. It’s funny, but Michael hadn’t really realized until now just how many people’s lives were intertwined with his. For some reason that thought makes him smile.

He kicks off his shoes and crawls under the covers of the bed. Tomorrow he can brush his teeth and wash his gritty plane clothes, but it’s time to sleep now, and Calum seems to be along the same line of thinking, because he, too, only pauses to remove his shoes before clambering into bed with Michael and immediately cuddling into his side.

“Get under the blanket, you asshole,” Michael grunts, elbowing Calum. Calum gives him a baleful look and makes a half-assed attempt at kicking the covers down, so Michael lends a hand and pulls them back. Calum slides underneath and leans his forehead against Michael’s collarbone, breathing hot against Michael’s sternum, and wraps an arm securely around Michael’s middle.

“Goodnight,” he says into Michael’s neck.

“Goodnight,” Michael replies, and even though this is just another hotel and they could still be in Brazil for all the scenery change there’s been, somehow this feels like home, or whatever twisted sense of home he has now. He’s curled up with Calum and Luke and Ashton are in the room next over; the boys of One Direction are somewhere in this hotel, sleeping or possibly still awake and chatting shit, and Michael exhales, feeling, finally, comfortably at home.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**EPILOGUE**

Louis smirks when Michael and Calum walk in, which is suspicious because they’re just holding hands, and they’ve held hands before, but Louis looks like he knows something, like he _knows_ , and then he turns to look at Harry and Harry grins like _he_ knows something.

“Okay, enough sneaky looks,” Michael declares loudly, pulling Louis’s attention from Harry. “If you’ve got something to say you can just say it.”

“No, no, got nothing to say, just welcome back,” Louis says airily. “We’ve missed you lads.”

“Just tell them,” Luke says, from his position on his bed, head pillowed against Ashton’s chest. Michael rolls his eyes. Luke has no leg to stand on if he’s going to keep being an oblivious idiot about Ashton, but as soon as he’s spoken Louis grins almost wolfishly and even Liam looks up from his game of chess with Niall. Michael is dying to know where they acquired a chess set.

“Tell us what?” Zayn asks, lounging on the other bed (Ashton’s?) and taking up as much surface area as possible. He has one headphone in but the other ear is unfortunately attuned to the room.

“I thought we’d have, like, a formal meeting about it,” Calum goes.

“This is as formal as we’re gonna get,” Harry says, with arms spread wide. That’s a fair point; between 5 Seconds of Summer and One Direction, just getting them all in the same room without anyone from higher up wrangling them, and with everyone relatively calm and quiet, is an impressive achievement. Michael glances at Calum and Calum looks back, and Michael wonders if Calum also feels like there’s hardly any point in saying anything anyway because everyone seems to know.

“Go on,” Louis says. “Niall, Liam, stop the game.”

“Fuck off,” Niall mutters, eyes trained on the travel board. “I’m like two moves from checkmate and if you distract me I’ll cut your tongue out.”

Liam laughs. “May as well give it up now, then, there’s no chance you’re beating me.”

Niall glares at Liam. “You’re cheating. There’s no way anyone can win this many times at chess.”

“How many times have you played?” Michael asks. 

“Five since we got the set in Italy,” Liam says.

“Twice since they’ve been in the room,” Ashton adds. “Their first game was tragic, I’ve never seen anyone lose so quickly.”

“They conspired against me!” Niall argues. He shoots a sour look at Zayn. “If _someone_ hadn’t pretended to be a chess champion and manipulated me into losing.”

Zayn waves him off with half of a smirk. “Worth it for the look on your face, babe.”

“I’m gonna quit this band and then you’ll all be sorry,” Niall says darkly.

“Boys,” Louis says, and then whistles. All chatter ceases; Niall huffs and looks over at Michael and Calum, who are still kind of standing in the doorway, or at least in front of the closed door. “I think Calum and Michael here have something to share with us.”

“You’re just putting us on the spot now,” Michael complains. “You already know.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Mikey and I are together now,” Calum says. “Is that gonna be a problem?” They already know it won’t, because there’s Louis and Harry, and plus Niall had once confided in Michael that he was pretty sure there was something between Liam and Zayn and he seemed far too enthusiastic at the prospect of being a permanent fifth wheel to his boy band.

“I have a problem with it,” Luke says. “Are you guys gonna be gross all the time now?”

“Whatever could you possibly mean?” Michael asks innocently. “You mean you don’t want me to kiss my boyfriend in front of you?” And he crowds against Calum, who melts into a kiss, tangled hands between them.

Louis hoots, and Liam wolf-whistles, and Zayn says, “You guys can have one public display of affection per day, so I reckon that was it.”

“One’s too many,” Luke grumbles. Ashton chuckles and scratches lightly against Luke’s scalp, and Luke seems immediately appeased, and Michael wants to be like, _this is fucking ridiculous, is nobody else seeing this?_ So he nudges Calum and jerks his chin in Luke and Ashton’s direction and Calum immediately snickers, which is why he’s the best boyfriend ever.

“What are you laughing at?” Ashton demands, although his tone is undercut by the way his hands are still gently working through Luke’s hair. The whole thing is absurd. 

“Nothing,” Michael says, and tugs Calum along to go and join Zayn on Ashton’s bed. Zayn shifts over and Michael leans back against the pillows, but then there’s not really space for Calum next to him so Michael makes a V with his legs and pats the space between them and Calum grins and makes himself comfortable, back pressed centimetre-for-centimetre against Michael’s front, curly hair tickling Michael’s chin.

Niall and Liam return to their chess game. Zayn puts his headphones back in, and Harry is on his phone now, looking at what Michael has to assume is Twitter, and Luke and Ashton go back to whatever they were up to, which is possibly, by the looks of it, the game where you trace words onto the other person’s back and try to get them to guess what you’ve written.

“I’m glad you boys figured it out,” Louis says. “Proper happy for you, I am.”

Harry briefly looks up from his phone and a smile creeps onto his face at the position Michael and Calum are currently occupying. “Lou and I beat you to it, though,” he says coolly.

Louis snorts. “That’s my boy.”

“Well, but have they been best friends since second grade?” Calum says quietly, tilting his head up to sort of try and whisper it into Michael’s ear, which doesn’t really work, but Michael smiles anyway.

“True,” he says, wrapping his arms around Calum. “We beat them to it in life.”

“In life,” Calum agrees. Michael thinks that could mean the past, but it could also mean the future, and he thinks about a future with Calum, about spending every single day until he dies at Calum’s side, and it sounds like the nicest thing in the world.

But that’s a conversation for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> so!! i hope you enjoyed come say hey or tell me what you thought im on tumblr [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) i love hearing your opinions and also just chatting okay that's all. sending love and good vibes to everyone byeeee
> 
> ETA: if you read this fic before dec 25 and it said the flight was at 7am no you didn't the flight was always at 9am because logistical reasons thank you for understanding x


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